The light was coming from the wooden chest—from the desolate bones themselves.
Zaric broke into a cold sweat.
Threads of golden motes drifted off the bones and flowed toward him. If Ren Flintclaw noticed, he'd investigate. And if he investigated… Zaric had only one way to "explain" it—with his life.
"Zac, what's wrong? Your forehead is soaked," Sister Lyra whispered.
"You… don't see anything?" Zaric asked, guilt prickling as more motes curled through the air like fireflies.
Lyra blinked. "See what? Zac, are you sick?" Her worry deepened; he'd only just "come back" yesterday.
Zaric exhaled slowly. No one else reacted. Not Lyra, not the villagers. Even Ren—calm smile fixed, eyes burning whenever they strayed to the chest—gave no sign.
Only I can see them.
The yellow amethyst against his chest pulsed cool. The golden motes slipped into him and vanished, and each time, the stone's chill deepened, washing his fatigue away.
This gem isn't just drinking starlight—it drinks bone-essence too.
Ren's gaze slid to them. He stepped forward and stopped before Lyra.
"The food is your reward," he said gently, the condescension beneath the silk impossible to miss. "Don't starve yourselves. If it's not enough, come to me."
Lyra kept her silence. Ren didn't mind; he found her stubbornness… entertaining. He intended to sand it away until she was obedient as a kitten. A servant should be pliant, not proud.
With a brother beside her, she had spine. Ren disliked that. They weren't blood—Terran was not Zaric's birth name. And this boy had stirred the crowd, nearly causing a riot. A twelve-year-old with a schemer's edge could grow into a problem.
Ren smiled and patted Zaric's shoulder.
Zaric's heart jumped; before he could shift, the hand had already fallen.
Damn it. The familiar numb heat spread and vanished—the same prickling surge as before. Ren Flintclaw, smiling like a saint and striking like a snake.
"What are you so nervous about?" Ren murmured. "Afraid of me? Take care of your sister."
He withdrew his hand. Zaric's shoulder tingled again.
"If there's trouble, seek me," Ren said to Lyra, still smiling.
Zaric's jaw tightened. So that's it… He's set his sights on her. Why else "gift" so much grain?
With a gesture, the warriors sealed the chest. The instant the lid thumped shut, the thread between the bones and the yellow amethyst snapped. The drifting motes blinked out.
Zaric's mind raced. When the chest opens again…
On the walk home, Lyra watched his furrowed brow. "Zac? What's on your mind?"
He said nothing of Ren's touch. Why add to her worry? She was young, and Ren's mask was flawless—concerned young master, gentle leader. Only someone who'd seen such men before could smell the rot beneath the perfume.
But Lyra surprised him. "Be careful of Ren Flintclaw," she said softly. "Avoid him if you can."
Zaric blinked. He hadn't expected her to sense it too.
They ate early—thin porridge and greens. Two meals a day; in a place this poor, it was the only way to last. Lyra apologized for the lack of meat. Zaric waved it off, mind gnawing on Ren's two pats and the strange numbness they'd left behind.
He lifted the bowl—his hand spasmed. The chopsticks clattered to the floor.
"Zac!"
His left arm went heavy and dead, pain blooming in both biceps as if an invisible hand were snapping the bones.
Lyra rushed him to the bed. Sweat filmed his skin.
Ren… The thought hissed through his teeth. He hadn't imagined that heat. Whatever Ren pressed into him had started working.
"Is it your old injury?" Lyra asked, panicked.
"I…" His tongue numbed mid-word. The paralysis crept from fingers to elbow to shoulder like frost.
Realization hit cold and clean.
He's killing me. Quietly.
Not with a blade—with essence. A thread of energy, pushed into his meridians with those "kind" pats, now unraveling him from the inside.
To the tribe, it would look like a sickly boy relapsing. Convenient. No blame. No trail. Lyra, cornered and starving, would turn to Ren for help—and he would "save" her.
A perfect plan: remove the troublesome boy, claim the sister, harvest the tribe.
This world wasn't bound by law or pity. Here, power wrote the rules.
Pain lanced his chest. His breath hitched. Feeling bled from his legs.
Move. He clawed for anything—any tool, any chance—and the yellow amethyst answered. A cool current surged from the stone, racing through his veins. Where Ren's heat burned, the amethyst's chill pushed back, compressing, sealing, binding.
The paralysis slowed.
Not stopped—slowed.
Zaric gritted his teeth. Not enough. He needed more fuel—starlight, bone-essence, anything the gem could drink—and the chest was sealed, the night still hours away.
His vision blurred. Lyra's face hovered over him, eyes wide and wet. "Zac, stay with me. Please—stay with me."
He squeezed her fingers with the strength he had left. The gem's pulse steadied, cool and relentless.
I won't die here. Not like this. Not as his stepping-stone.
In the darkness that followed, as the numbness crept and the amethyst fought, a single thought hammered in time with the stone's beat:
When that chest opens again, I take what's mine.